Page 246 of Whisper
“George Haugen,” his gruff voice answered on the fourth ring. He sounded like he hadn’t slept, not once in his whole life. Like the entire world was about to crash down around him. Like he’d failed, everything and everyone.
Kris knew exactly how he felt.
“It’s me.”
“Kris!” George’s tone changed instantly, sheer shock and amazement laced with terror winding through each consonant. “Jesus Christ, where the fuck are you?”
“Heading down Rock Creek Parkway toward Arlington Memorial Bridge. I think Dawood and whoever Dan’s partner is are on their way there. I found a text on a burner phone of Dan’s, with a location and an ETA.”
“Where is Dan?”
“Where I left his body, in a ravine in his crashed car in Rock Creek Park.”
Silence.
“He was about to kill me.”
George exhaled slowly. Kris heard everything he didn’t say, couldn’t say, in his shaky breath. “Later, George. Listen, last night—”
“Haddad recorded everything on his phone. We have everything. We know what Dan did. We think Noam Avraham and Haddad are together in an SUV. Older, with remanufactured tires. We don’t have a make or model.”
Noam. Kris swallowed.Noam. “They’re coming in from Marymount University, so if you have any units in that area, tell them to keep on the lookout.”
He heard George repeat what he’d said, bark it out to the analysts and operators around him. In the background, he heard Ryan’s gruff voice ask, “Is he okay?”
“Where are you, Kris? Where are you going?”
“To the bridge. I’m going to my husband.”
“We’re right behind you.”
0804 hours
Traffic backed up for a mile off Arlington Memorial Bridge, onto Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway. The Watergate rose on his left, overlooking the river. Ahead, the Kennedy Performing Arts Center gleamed in the morning light. And beyond, miles of snarled traffic, gridlock on the roads, stretching across the bridge in both directions.
Fuck this.
Kris grabbed the cell phone and his gun and jumped out of the SUV. He weaved between the vehicles, ignoring the honks, running as fast as he could southbound on Potomac Parkway, past Easby point, past the sand volleyball courts. The Lincoln Memorial rose ahead, sitting on a hill overlooking the bridge, gazing at Arlington National Cemetery on the opposite bank of the river.
He jogged up the cloverleaf, rounded the bend, raced past the Arts of Peace statues.
Pedestrians clogged the walkways, the sidewalks on either side of the road. Cars sat bumper to bumper, exhaust fumes heavy in the air. Honks sounded up and down the bridge, angry drivers frustrated at the gridlock. He tried to see, tried to crane his neck over the crowds, reach around the mass of humanity—
Impossible. It was fucking impossible like this.
Kris clambered onto the hood of the nearest car. The metal warped beneath his boots, groaning. The driver honked, horn blaring as a window rolled down and a man screamed, “What the fuck?”
Kris jumped from the hood to the trunk of the next car. He jogged over the roof, jumped off the hood and onto the rear spoiler of a low-slung white sports car. It rocked, and he leaped sideways into the bed of a pickup before running forward, jumping to the hood of a sedan. Horns blared, following his every move.
He kept his head on a swivel, scanning every car coming in from Virginia, searching for an SUV, an older model, dark. It would be low on its tires, weighted down with explosives. Heavier in the rear, sitting back—
Sunlight glinted off a midnight blue Chevy Blazer, late nineties model. Something almost obsolete. Something that could be bought for around two grand, cash-only in a back-alley deal.
Its back end sat heavy on the tires, its suspension weighted down.
He ran forward, jumping from hood to hood until he was a hundred feet from the SUV, close enough to see.
Two people in the front.
